Surviving Season Eight
by OldSFfan
Summary: A series of short short pieces set beginning shortly after the end of Season 8 during my story, "Letters to Lisa" and continuing episodically. Rated T for an occasional cuss word.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own House or Wilson and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is contemporaneous with my story, "Letters to Lisa." Ted Rosenberg is an original character.

All I Want to Hear

Wilson reclined in the chair in the chemotherapy suite at Roswell Park Cancer Institute. The window had a view of the treed park of the grounds and the green avenues of one of Buffalo's older residential areas. The chair was comfortable, the medical equipment the same he had used many times. Odd, that an oncologist should be so nervous in such a familiar setting.

House was just as nervous, sitting by him in another comfortable chair, bouncing his cane up and down until Wilson couldn't hear anything else.

"House!" he barked, finally.

House started and looked down at his hands. "Sorry," he murmured.

Wilson jerked around to look at him. House never apologized. "That's okay," Wilson assured him, slipping effortlessly back into caring. "It's getting to me, too. Hard to go through it after what we did in your apartment. At one point, I thought I was going to die."

House shook his head. "I was afraid, too," he muttered.

"It will be all right: different drug cocktail, lower dosages, fewer side effects. Ted said that there shouldn't be much nausea, actually. The radiation last week wasn't bad."

"Wilson, anything would be better than those three days in my apartment. I was getting ready to call an ambulance, despite what you wanted."

"You said you would stick with me to the end, when we were on the road."

"A lot had changed by the time we were on our road trip and I made you a promise. I would have kept it."

"I know." Wilson sat up when the technician walked in and began to set up the infusion equipment. Ted Rosenberg followed with a cart. The medication rested in IV bags.

"James," he said. Rosenberg was a jovial gnome, barely five-foot-six, bearded, with a nose to rival Taub's, a twinkle in gray-blue eyes, and with a fading red beard. His wild, gray, and red curls were tamed only by a fairly short clip. His white coat was tidy. He wore a black turtleneck beneath it. "Welcome to my lair." He nodded to House. "So shall we begin?" he asked Wilson.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

Rosenberg stopped, set the equipment down, and walked in front of Wilson. "James, I think we caught it in time."

Wilson nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

"Rosenberg," House rumbled, voice deeper than usual in his agitation, "better get the drip going, or I'm going to have to keep him from bolting. And I'm not very fast."

"You got it," Rosenberg agreed. He readied the infusion and connected the IV to the port already installed in Wilson's arm. House watched as the first drops of the solution moved down the clear, plastic tubing.

Rosenberg set a basin on the table. "You shouldn't need it, but just in case," he told Wilson. He set a hand on Wilson's shoulder. "We'll beat this thing. I'm glad you came to me. By next year at this time, by the High Holy Days, probably, if not, by Chanukah, you'll be in remission, and your friend, here, will be a lot easier to get along with."

Wilson's head jerked up at that. "He's been on good behavior."

"That's not what the legend says. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone he's here."

House and Wilson looked at each other.

"James, you've told me enough stories about him over the years. I used to read some of your e-mails to my wife. She laughed out loud." He looked at House. "You're a legend," he commented.

House was flushed and Wilson thought he could hear his teeth grinding. Wilson had to defuse the situation. "Ted, thanks for everything. But I'm here because of him."

"Maybe your instinct for self-preservation kicked in, too, but I'm not a snitch. Don't worry and I doubt any of my staff have any idea who he is."

Wilson settled back. "Thanks."

Rosenberg nodded. "I'll be back to check on you in a half hour or so."

House watched him leave, then turned back to watch the yellow liquid in the IV. "Nice guy. Do you trust him?"

Wilson considered House's question for a moment. "You know, I do. He has no reason to turn you in, and he has no reason to damage our friendship. We roomed together at McGill."

Both settled back in their chairs. After a few minutes, House turned to Wilson. "Remember what you wanted me to tell you, when you decided to let yourself die without a fight?"

"How could I forget? I asked you to tell me that you loved me, and that my life mattered. You wouldn't."

"No, I said I wouldn't until you allowed your cancer to be treated."

"Well, here I am."

House climbed to his feet. "Here you are." He took a deep breath, and looking Wilson in the eye, he said, "Wilson, I love you. Your life matters to your patients. It matters to your family." He cleared his throat. "And it matters to me. It matters very much to me."

Wilson looked up. House met his eyes defiantly. They stared at each other for a minute. Then Wilson looked down and up again at his best friend, and said softly, "Thank you. Thank you for that, and you don't want to hear it, but thank you for this."

House sat down again and got out the Gameboy that Wilson had bought him to replace the one left in his condo. Wilson turned on his tablet computer. Side by side, they waited out the first chemotherapy treatment.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own House or Wilson, or Cuddy, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is a prequel to my story, "Visiting Day." Legally, this storyline is entirely a fantasy. David Schiff is an original character.

* * *

Wilson and the Paparazzi

"Someone is going to have to talk to them," David Schiff said, slipping from his role as House's attorney to that of a concerned friend. "And we have to be careful what we say."

"Why don't you?" House muttered.

"For the same reason you shouldn't, well, not the only reason only why you shouldn't," Schiff amended. Wilson heard him covering up a chuckle. House's appeal had gone even better than he had hoped, and the pleasure was evident in the attorney's voice. "We don't want to offend the judge before she issues a ruling, and we don't want you to, well, damage her deliberations."

"That's a euphemism, House, for you can't go out there and get nasty to the press," Wilson said, fondness in his voice taking the sting out of the statement. He could just picture House letting his disdain for reporters getting the best of his common sense.

"Why the hell not?" House blurted. "They've nearly got us cornered here in the courthouse. I don't want this…this publicity. It's obscene. It was our thing, Wilson, our road trip," he cried, "Just ours, and Cuddy's, because you kept her posted on e-mail. I don't want it to turn into a media circus."

Wilson laid a hand on House's shoulder. "I know. But it's too late. You've made national headlines. Look, I'll go distract them. Cuddy shouldn't do it either. She's pregnant. We don't want to risk someone jostling her, though she is probably better at this than any of us. You both can slip out to the parking garage."

"You shouldn't. They'll be shoving and crowding you and it just won't be safe. And you're immuno-compromised. I'll do it."

"No, you won't. Cancer chic, House, remember? People are nice to me when they see my hairless head. Or deep down they're afraid they'll catch it if they touch me. I'll be fine. Besides, I'll keep it short."

"I'll go with Doctor Wilson," Schiff changed his mind. "I've dealt with the press before. I can keep it under control." He touched Wilson's arm. "Let's get it over with. They're worse if you keep them waiting."

Wilson nodded and followed him down the corridor, dress shoes clacking on the marble floor. "Someone is writing a book about House and me," he told the attorney. "She called me but I told her that I had nothing to say."

"She contacted me, too. I said that I couldn't discuss a case still in litigation." They pushed open the imposing front doors of the courthouse and walked down the granite steps. "Eventually you'll have to talk to her in self-defense."

Wilson squinted into the afternoon sunlight. Vehicles with the local TV stations' logos were clustered and double parked. Wilson noticed A CNN logo on a white SUV parked at the curb and a FOX News sign on another. He cringed.

Sound equipment was elevated and reporters were shouting his name. Wilson took an involuntary step backward away from the commotion and almost tripped on the stairs. Schiff's hand shot out and grabbed his elbow. "Stop me if I say anything that could damage House's case," Wilson muttered to Schiff.

"Will do."

"Doctor Wilson!" the nearest reporter shouted. The sound gear and camera had a big red seven on it, a local TV station. "Are you in remission?"

Wilson took a deep breath and dove in. A microphone was shoved in his face. "It's too early to tell," he explained, "But the tumor was removed and the tests are promising."

"Doctor Wilson, you're an oncologist. Why did you avoid treatment initially? Isn't that almost like committing suicide?" the reporter, a young, attractive woman in very high heels and a blue coat, continued.

"It was a personal decision. I don't want to talk about it."

"Did you consider what effect it would have on Doctor House?" a male voice behind her shouted.

Wilson slipped smoothly into professional gear. "But that's just it. Our health care decisions always affect our family and friends."

"Did you forget that, Doctor Wilson?"

Damn, these people were persistent. Wilson felt his pulse speeding up. But then he realized that he had a chance to help House out a little more and to acknowledge his debt to House in this painfully public place. "Yes, I did, and Doctor House, my best friend, just by being my friend, reminded me. Let me make a statement. Would you do that?" he asked.

The woman in front said, "We're anxious to hear it, Doctor Wilson." It got quiet for a moment.

Wilson took a deep breath. "Because of a series of events that are in litigation here, Doctor House had to return to prison to serve out six months of a sentence that should not have been extended to begin with and is part of the subject of these proceedings. Unfortunately, I had just refused additional treatment for my cancer. I expected it to kill me in about five months. House was distressed that I was willing to go without fighting it, and he was frantic that he wouldn't be with me.

"After a series of events that are also part of this appeal, House was declared dead. But during his funeral, he sent me a text message. I was giving a eulogy. A phone rang, not mine, and I asked the guests to please shut it off but it kept ringing and I realized it was in my pocket. I pulled it out and it wasn't my phone. The text said," and he stopped and chuckled at the memory, "It said, 'Stop talking, you idiot.'"

There was laughter from the reporters. "So I knew House was alive," Wilson continued. "I rushed out of the chapel, and I guess everyone thought I was overcome with grief. I drove to his townhouse and there he sat on the steps, grinning like a gargoyle. I was surprised and upset and said something about him giving up everything, and he said, 'I'm dead, Wilson. What do you want to do with your last five months?'"

Wilson paused and closed his eyes, remembering the almost giddy relief, and also remembered how he had refused to think about the implications of what House had done. "House promised me that he wouldn't badger me to get treatment and he was true to his word. We followed my bucket list for a couple oblivious weeks. But one night my conscience woke up and reminded me that House had given up his name, his career, his reputation, probably his freedom, possibly his life, to be with me. I felt like I was waking up from a dream, a good dream, but a dream. When House went to bed that night, I got out my laptop and looked for a protocol or trial on my type of cancer. It turned out that an old friend of mine at Roswell Park Cancer Institute in Buffalo, a fine oncologist named Ted Rosenberg, had just the sort of program I was hoping for. Without House, well, I would have drifted along until it was too late. Let me say it again. House was selfless. He gave up everything for our friendship. It would have cheapened his sacrifice if I weren't willing to try to preserve my life. He literally saved my life." He stopped and cleared his throat. "I guess that's all I had to say."

"Doctor Wilson, please, a couple more questions!" someone shouted from the back.

At this point, Wilson felt and figured he looked like a deer in the headlights. Schiff reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Go ahead," he told Wilson. "Just don't talk about where House was while you were on your road trip or while you were at Roswell Park. I'll step in after two more questions."

Wilson nodded. "Two more questions," he said to the reporters. "Make 'em count."

"Doctor Wilson," the same voice began. Wilson caught a glimpse of the speaker, a tall, Asian-looking man standing near the vehicles. "Despite his felony conviction, Doctor House is said to be one of the finest medical minds of his generation. Do you think he should practice again?"

Wilson stared at the reporter. He noticed the crowd had become very quiet. "First, let me emphasize that House was and is against violence. He has been quite vehement about it when it has come up in his practice. The act that sent him to prison was a freak occurrence that astonished everyone who knows him and the reasons why he did it are part of his appeal. As to whether he should practice medicine again, I've seen Doctor House come up with diagnoses that no one else could have arrived at for patients referred to him after seeing a number of doctors. He saves lives that no one else could. I've accused him of being lucky, but I've underestimated him so often that I cringe when I think of it now. It isn't luck. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of, well, at times it seems like he has an encyclopedic knowledge of everything. I'm not sure how many languages he can read or speak. In a teaching hospital, everyone you work with is very, very good, but he is something way beyond that. It's a privilege to see him in action. So yes, not only do I think he should practice again, I think it would be a tragedy if he didn't. House saves lives. He has taught his fellows more than some of them even realize. He saves lives. Remember that."

More clamor, people waving cameras and sound equipment. Wilson nodded at a small, African-American woman in the front of the pack. "House is said to be pretty unpleasant to his colleagues and to his patients. How does that work as a bedside manner?"

Wilson tamped down the laugh. Oh, he would enjoy poking House about his infamous reputation. "Usually his fellows deal with the patients. House feels that it is important to his process to maintain his objectivity. I can tell you that disgruntled patients and family members feel better about him when they realize that they or their loved one is going to live. Over a hundred letters from patients were sent to the court on his behalf.

"From personal observation over many years, I think House connects too strongly to his patients and I've seen him fall apart when he loses one. His practice is unusual in that normally he focuses on one patient at a time, although there's usually some online consulting going on. But since the diagnostic process is much more intense, a loss is much more acute. Let me add, House doesn't lose many. His is the first department of diagnostic medicine in the country, possibly in the world, thanks to him and to the Dean of Medicine who had the vision to create it and hire him, Dr. Lisa Cuddy. House literally is writing the book on it."

More clamor. "Doctor Wilson, isn't Dr. Cuddy the woman whose home he destroyed with his car? Aren't they engaged to be married?"

Someone else shouted, "Doctor Wilson, if you had died, would Doctor House have killed himself?" Wilson flinched.

Schiff's hand on his arm steadied him. "Doctor Wilson answered two questions, everybody," Schiff shouted, "That's all we have time for. Thank you." Wilson turned and walked back up the stairs, ignoring the yells behind him. Still fragile from chemotherapy, he was winded when he reached the top, but he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.


	3. Chapter 3

Past Season 8. AU. One-shot. Now that the characters from House have been shelved by Fox, I'm taking them off the shelf to play. I don't own them and will return them, undamaged, sort of. This follows my story "Visiting Day," and some currently unpublished stories but you don't need them to understand this story. Fiona Buchanan and her family are original characters.

Wilson's Fourth Wedding

"Wilson, stop fidgeting."

"House, I know how to tie a bowtie better than you."

"It's basic training, Wilson. I know how to do it. I just don't like to. Now hold still or you'll end up looking like the Easter Bunny instead of a man on the way to his wedding."

"The Easter Bunny doesn't wear royal blue ribbons."

"He does after someone eats all his candy. Besides, how would you know? You're Jewish."

"My folks always let us have Peeps and chocolate bunnies."

"Oh, good grief," House muttered, gave Wilson's tie a final tug, and stepped back. "Why are you so nervous? You should be good at getting married, by now. Fourth time. Practice, and all that."

"Have you seen the size of Fiona's brothers?" Wilson muttered. House started whistling. "You're going to make me ask about the song, aren't you?"

House grinned and sang, "Many's the man, fought on that day, well the claymore could yield."*

"Claymore as in a landmine?" Wilson asked, really confused.

"No, dummy. A claymore is a two-handed medieval long sword, nearly five feet long. Her brothers look like they could handle one without blinking."

"You're not helping."

"Come on, Wilson. I'm married, to the right woman this time. It's time you got married to the right one, too."

"You think Fiona is the right one?" Wilson sounded uncharacteristically timid.

"Yeah, I think so. She's not in medicine or real estate, so she's outside your usual, needy orbit. She has tenure at Princeton. She's gorgeous, well not as gorgeous as Cuddy, but with that caveat, she beautiful, and for some unimaginable reason, she really likes you. Besides, she's got a rock hammer and she knows how to use it."

"First swords, now rock hammers. Does marriage always inspire you to thoughts of violence?"

"Your brothers-in-law to be are pretty intimidating. So is your father-in-law."

"Gentlemen all, a petroleum engineer, a barrister, and a commercial fisherman. And my future mother-in-law is as sweet and grandmotherly as your mother." That changed Wilson's mercurial mood. "God, House, after all that chemo, what if I can't make a baby? Fiona really wants a family."

House had had it. He limped over to Wilson, slung an arm around his shoulders, and turned him toward the door. "She's marrying you. She knows you've been sick and she knows you're in remission. Come on, Wilson, the poor, deluded lassie seems to want to get hitched to you. Let's get this show on the road."

"House."

"What?"

"Thank you for not throwing a bachelor party for me."

"Wilson, you wound me."

"It's still very nice of you to listen to me this time."

"My shrink says I have to. So does my wife. Come on, Wilson, you can't be late."

Two of Wilson's other marriages had taken place in the hospital chapel. He did not want to have what he hoped would be his last marriage ceremony in a place with those associations. Instead, they had rented a hall on the Princeton University Campus and had found a Unitarian minister to preside. House had joked that since Wilson was Jewish and Fiona, a good Scot, had been raised Presbyterian, they were splitting the difference.

A pianist and a violinist were playing quietly in the front right-hand corner of the room, mostly classical and soft jazz. The two were the same pair who had played for House's and Cuddy's wedding. They were half of a group that played blues and jazz in a club in downtown Trenton and with whom House jammed sometimes on weekends.

House and Wilson avoided the flower- and ribbon-strewn center aisle and walked down the aisle on the side of the room. House had his best, polished ebony cane. He limped next to Wilson to the makeshift altar at the front of the hall. The folding chairs left room for a hundred people and the invited guests filled them. The woman minister, dressed in a blue suit, waited at the front of the room, next to Wilson's older brother, Michael. Fiona's oldest brother stood there also, red-headed and bearded, towering over the others, even over House. Wilson's parents were already seated a row in front of Chase and Foreman. House looked over the guests. There was a seat left in the second row for Rachel, next to Lisa. Rachel, coached, primped, and dressed in a flower-petal pink dress, was in the back with the bridal party. She was going to be the flower girl.

Seated on the other side of the aisle were Fiona's mother, father and brother. Among Fiona's friends and relatives, House noticed Hannah Steinberg, Fiona's professor when she was a post-doc at Columbia University. Several of Fiona's colleagues and students from the Princeton University geology department had come, as well as two of her friends all the way from Scotland.

"Do you have the rings?" Wilson fretted.

House hooked his cane over his elbow and started the show of frantically patting his pockets. "Don't," Wilson muttered.

House stopped. "Stop worrying, Wilson. They're safe and sound in my…" Another frantic look, then House grinned. "It's fine." The musicians started in on "Mairi's Wedding." "Heads up," House warned. "If you're going to run, you'd better do it now."

Wilson seemed to relax. "No, I think I've finally figured it out."

The band switched to the wedding march. "Good, because I think you've figured it out, too." The family and friends seated in the hall stood. House gripped Wilson briefly on the arm and turned to watch Rachel walking toward them, tossing flower petals in front of her and to each side, tongue on one side of her mouth in concentration. When she got to the second row, Cuddy gently pulled her in to stand by her seat. House leaned on his cane and watched while Cuddy kissed Rachel on the forehead. Cuddy was in a gorgeous green wool suit that showed off her dark hair and brilliant eyes. Bobby was home with Arlene, far too young to come to a wedding. House felt the love for his two girls, for Wilson, even for his two former fellows, wash over him like a wave.

Fiona's sister and matron of honor walked down the aisle. Unlike her statuesque sister, Margaret Buchanan Gordon was much like her mother, small, rounded, and dark-haired. She carried the pink and yellow tea roses Fiona had chosen for her color scheme.

Fiona seemed petite on the arm of her tall, white-haired father. Her red hair was swept back under a circlet of flowers, with curls that flowed down her back. Her dress was a simple column of ivory silk. House watched as she and Wilson didn't take their eyes off each other. Wilson's other marriages had intimidated him. He had feared losing his best friend to the parade of wives, or to Amber. But now Wilson's family would join his as an extended family, and if children came along, all the better. He looked at Rachel and at Lisa and felt the love for his girls all over again. He grimaced briefly, wondering when he had become such a sap, and then he wondered why it had taken him so long.

*Skye Boat Song


	4. Chapter 4

I don't own House or Wilson, or Cuddy, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is a snippet of life, several years after Season 8. It is one of a series of sequels to my story "Eighth Day."

* * *

I Will Always Have Your Back

Wilson dropped House at home after an evening of bowling with Chase and Henry Dobson. "Wanna come in for a minute?" House invited, as he climbed out of the car. "You can pick up that package of photographs you left here last week."

Wilson turned off the car. "Oh, right," Wilson remembered. "Becky was teething and Fiona and I were so upset that we walked out without it."

"Is she feeling better?"

"Yeah, and we're calming down. It's not like we invented parenthood."

They walked up the ramp to the front door. "Cuddy had to calm me down when Bobby was teething. She'd already been through it with Rachel. She's a pro, now, after two."

Wilson's chuckle followed him in as he led the way into the front hall. "Lisa, Wilson's with me," he warned her.

Cuddy walked out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. Wilson hurried forward and kissed her cheek. He noticed a tux hanging in a dry-cleaner bag on a hook on the coat closet door. "Not only does she send you to work in pressed shirts, but formal wear?" he asked. "Is someone getting married?"

"We already did that," House said, as he limped into the office to pick up a manila envelope of photographs on the desk.

"He goes with me to fundraisers, now," Cuddy told Wilson, "at least when he isn't tied up with a case. The one next Wednesday will be formal."

"Voluntarily?" Wilson blurted out.

"Nice," House muttered, as he returned with the photos.

"I was harassed by a donor," Cuddy told Wilson. "The guy had me cornered in the ladies room, after nearly everyone left. I had to call House to come rescue me."

Wilson whistled. "Where were the security guards? I know you usually have them at those big affairs."

"Foolishly, I didn't leave when they did. I won't make that mistake again."

House handed Wilson the envelope. "Great pictures. I like how she's all red in the face and showing her one tooth."

"Oh, you mean Fiona?" Wilson asked, deadpan.

It wasn't often he caught House completely off guard. House spluttered, then barked a laugh.

Cuddy ignored their antics. "House also suggested I have at least one female security guard who can make sure the women's restroom is safe. I do that now, but I feel safer when he comes to events with me."

"I speak softly but carry a big stick," House explained with a grin, lifting his cane."

Wilson rested a hand on House's arm. They were more physically demonstrative with each other since Wilson's cancer. "You always have had my back," he said. "And of course, you have Cuddy's too."

Despite his pleased smile House muttered, "Don't get all mushy on me, Wilson."

"Wouldn't dream of it." And before anyone could get too sentimental, Wilson fled out the door and to his car.


	5. Chapter 5

I don't own House or Wilson, or Cuddy, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is a snippet of life, several years after Season 8. It is a sequel to my story "Eighth Day." Bobby Cuddy-House, Fiona Buchanan Wilson, and Rebecca Wilson are original characters, as is Captain Hook Cuddy-House (AKA "the cat.").

The Boys' Clubhouse

House sat on the recliner with Bobby in his lap. Wilson was on the sofa, legs propped up on the coffee table, with Rebecca snuggled in a violet blanket asleep on his chest. The cat was stretched out on top of the sofa back. Rachel sat cross-legged on the braided rug in front of the sofa. "What's wrong with this picture?" House asked.

"What?" Wilson asked, startled. He waited while Cuddy set a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. She sat down on the other recliner while Fiona sat down cuddled tight against Wilson. "What do you mean, 'What's wrong'"?

"This was supposed to be my sanctuary, my _sanctum sanctorum_, free of rugrats, no women's influence, except maybe Thirteen, and look at us."

"I am not a rugrat," Rachel interjected, before turning back to the TV.

"Not rugrat," Bobby added.

"I rest my case," House said.

Bobby reached up to pat House's scruff. He chortled. "Papa," he said.

House reached around the toddler and pulled him back against him. "Stop wiggling," he told Bobby. "See?" he asked the room in general. "We were going to play poker in here, smoke cigars, watch football and wrestling, watch Shark Week, make disgusting smells, make disgusting noises, you know."

"Only if we let you," Cuddy murmured.

House raised his hands and his eyes to the ceiling of the room, or the heavens. "See?" he asked again. He pointed at the cat tree in the corner of the room. "Not that he uses it, but even the cat has his own furniture in here. For all we know, he's watching cat videos when we're at work."

Rachel giggled, but turned to him. "Papa, shhhh. Stuart Little is lost and he's trying to get back to his family."

"I'm being shhhssed by a six-year-old. Next the cat will be telling me what to do." Captain Hook stood up, cat fashion, back end first with his fluffy gray tail high, then fuzzy, gray-legged front, stretched with his soft-furred, beige body arched high, leapt down and jumped onto the arm of House's chair. He circled twice, then settled on the leather. His blue eyes were almost the same shade as the eyes of the two humans in the chair. "I rest my case," House said. "At least, he mostly stopped scratching the furniture since we bought him that thing in the corner. Maybe we'll let him play a hand next poker night."

"Qvetch, qvetch," Wilson said.

Cuddy asked, "Anybody need a refill on their drinks?" she asked.

"Mama, can I have more milk?" Rachel asked.

"Sure, sweetie, come on."

Cuddy got up and Rachel followed with her empty glass, then turned around. "Papa, push 'pause'?"

"Push 'pause,' please," Cuddy murmured automatically. They walked down the short hallway to the kitchen.

"Yeah, isn't this a problem?" Wilson agreed. "Wives, kids, comfy sofa, wide screen TV. Oh, pardon me, Captain Hook, and the cat."

"Next Sunday night at your house?"

"Same problem, House, just too much comfort, except the dog probably won't curl up on the arm of the recliner."

Cuddy followed Rachel back into the room. She stopped behind House's chair and kissed the bald spot on top of his head. House pouted. "Mooommm," he whined.

"Fiona said you bought "Little Mermaid?" she asked Wilson, ignoring her husband.

"Right. Or we could borrow something else from the library."

"Little Mermaid" is good.

"Mooommm," Rachel whined, in an excellent imitation of her papa. "I can't hear Stuart Little."

"I have taught you well, young Padawan," House murmured.

"Just a minute," Cuddy said. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and took a picture of House, Bobby, and Captain Hook, her blue-eyed boys.

"Mooommm," Bobby echoed, and everyone laughed except Captain Hook, who cocked one blue eye at the noise, then went to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't own House or Wilson, or Cuddy, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is a snippet of life, several years after Season 8. It is one of a number of sequels to my story "Eighth Day."

* * *

Foreman

House limped to the elevators from the parking garage, hat on, long winter coat buttoned up, scarf wrapped around his neck. Foreman stood near the glass doors and windows at the front of the lobby near the clinic, watching the snow piling up on the sidewalk. He too, was bundled up. House detoured to stand next to him. "Are you sorry you didn't take that job with Marty Hamilton in California?" he asked Foreman.

"On mornings like this, yeah. I'll never get used to driving in the snow."

"I can't used to walking in it," House muttered, lifting his cane.

"Got a minute?"

"What did I do now?" House asked. It was his usual response.

Foreman held the door to his office while House limped past him. "Have a seat."

House shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto Foreman's sofa. His hat and scarf followed. "Don't worry, they're dry," he commented. "Love that parking garage. Cuddy dropped me off at the staff entrance. She took the SUV to deliver the kids to school and daycare on the way to the hospital." He sat down in the chair by the desk at Foreman's gesture.

"I had a, well, a moment of inspiration," Foreman said, "Two weeks ago, after the Department Heads meeting. I realized that coffee with you and Wilson was the high point of my day. Everything after that went downhill."

'Pushing too much paper?"

"Remember when we were treating John Henry, you told me that I did something great?"

"You did."

"Well, that's why I became a doctor. That's why I came to work for you. All I do now is go to meetings and review contracts. So that's what I wanted to talk to you about. When we were over at your place for the Superbowl, Cuddy mentioned that her Chief of Neurology was retiring. She's offered me the position."

"It's a demotion."

"It feels like a promotion. House, this job has been good to me. I paid off my student loans. I own my car and we own our condo free and clear. My wife and I are putting money away for our daughter to go to college. But I'm not doing what I wanted to do."

"You've done a good job here, Foreman."

"You know, your wife sees the hospital as her patient. She can treat it by being a great administrator. We were lucky to have her at Princeton Plainsboro. Princeton General is lucky to have her. I can't make that leap. I'm bored and sick to death of being a bureaucrat instead of a doctor."

House nodded. "It would drive me crazy. I think the more of you for wanting out, but I don't want to end up with a dean with a god complex who wants to micromanage my department."

Foreman grinned. "Somehow, I think the Board will warn whoever they hire about you. Besides, I'll stay on until the position is filled."

House climbed to his feet. "I still don't understand why you aren't heading for a warmer climate. Though I suppose since your wife has tenure at Rutgers, that would be awkward."

"You don't get it, do you?" Foreman asked.

"Get what?"

"Why do you suppose Chase is still here? And Cameron brought her family back here. Hell, even Taub opened his practice here, not in Philadelphia or New York."

"Inertia? Princeton is a nice town, pretty, great educational system, but the climate is lousy and the taxes are miserable. Beats me why any of us stayed."

Foreman shook his head, smiling. "You kind of created a community here, almost a family. They're all here because of you. It seems to be home. So I'm moving down the road to work for your wife instead of someplace where I don't freeze the tips of my ears going to work in the morning. Now either go find a patient or try to catch up on your clinic hours."

House met his eyes and realized there was a fond twinkle in them. Had Foreman ever looked like that before? Maybe it was the prospect of escaping House's chaos that had him in such a good mood. House shrugged and limped out toward the elevators. His latest batch of fellows was too raw to be trusted with selecting the next patient. He'd have to bully them into shape.


	7. Chapter 7

House, Wilson, Cuddy, and other characters from the series House M.D. are not mine, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is AU, several years after Season 8. Bobby Cuddy-House is an original character.

* * *

Passover at Wilson's

"So you're really going to make me go to Wilson's for Passover Seder?" House complained. "His wife is a shiksa.1 How can that be kosher for Passover?"

"What do you know about kosher or Passover?" Cuddy asked. She grinned. "We'll bring the matzoh kugel.2 This year Wilson's mom is going to make the chicken soup and some of the matzoh balls. Unfortunately, you won't get to roll the balls."

House smirked, "But Mom!"

"The matzoh balls," Cuddy amended. "If you don't stop whining like a five-year-old, you'll have to recite the Four Questions."3

"Hah! I happen to know that you've been coaching Rachel to do it, in Hebrew no less."

"And I happen to know you know it, too. But you'd be hard to explain as a child when you chant the questions in a nice baritone. Besides, you like charoset."4

"Chopped nuts and apples in honey and wine, what's not to like? But since I'm not Jewish, I don't have to mix it with horseradish."

"Qvetch, qvetch. You look cute in a yarmulke."5

The appeal to House's vanity quieted him for the moment. He was sensitive about the growing bare spot on the crown of his head. "You're going to make me eat gefilte fish and chopped liver."

"Chopped liver, by another name, is paté."

"Paté has brandy in it."

"So I'll sneak you a little bottle of brandy, but then, when Bobby asks to taste your chopped liver, you can't let him have any."

"What kind of a father do you think I am?"

Cuddy wrapped her arms around his middle. "I think you're House, and you're in cahoots with your children to make chaos."

"You say that like it's a bad thing…"

Cuddy rested her head against his chest and giggled. She looked up and caught his grin. "My Mom is making the sponge cakes.6 She's a good baker. One of the cakes will be a wine cake."

"You're corrupting the children," he said in dire tones.

"There'll be macaroons."

"Chocolate?" he said hopefully.

"And coconut."

He sighed elaborately. "Well, okay, as long as I don't have to eat gefilte fish."

Cuddy stepped back to her shopping list. "Good. There'll be more for the rest of us."

"Good," he echoed her. "I'll be able to save room for the good stuff, the chicken soup and macaroons."

* * *

1Shiksa: A non-Jewish woman.

2Matzoh kugel: A kugel is a dinner pudding, usually made with eggs and noodles, but during Passover, it is made with matzoh or matzoh farfel.

3Four Questions is part of the Seder. The questions traditionally are asked by the youngest child present, chanted in Hebrew and usually followed by translation into English. All the questions begin with, "Why is this night different from all other nights?"

4Charoset: Made for Passover to remember the mortar the Hebrew slaves used in ancient Egypt. It is a paste or almost a relish usually made of ground apples, nuts, cinnamon, sometimes lemon peel, honey, and sweet kosher wine.

5Yarmulke: Skull cap. Also called a 'kippah.'

6Passover sponge cake: During Passover, nothing is eaten that contains leavening such as yeast, and flour is replaced by matzoh meal. So the traditional dessert of the Passover Seder is sponge cake, made with matzoh meal and beaten egg whites.


	8. Chapter 8

I don't own House or Wilson, or Cuddy, and the gang, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is a snippet of life, several years after Season 8. It is a sequel to my story "Eighth Day."

"You Bloody Scalawag"

"We need a boat," House told Cuddy.

"A boat? Why?"

"For the family pirate. We might as well teach Rachel to sail. We can channel her energy for good, sort of like the "Crimson Pirate."

Cuddy rested her elbows on the table and her forehead in her hands. "You're right. She's never lost interest. Do you know anything about boats?"

"We had a motor boat when my Dad was stationed in San Diego. Pretty much everybody did there, also in Okinawa."

"That's not the same as sailing."

"It's a start. She can get an idea what boats are about, basic safety, basic navigation, nautical terms. We can worry about sailing later if she's interested. I don't have the agility to do any serious sailing with her. Anyhow, we can get a boat small enough to keep on a trailer in the backyard and use it on the river. If we like it, maybe next summer we can try it out on the ocean, just near shore."

"Okay. We'll have to be careful with both of them, making sure they always have life preservers on and so forth. Bobby is so little. Do they have life preservers that fit toddlers?"

"Lisa, there's no way I'd let any of us get near a boat without life preservers. I won't risk any of you. I'm past stupid bravado."

Cuddy stood up and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I know. Let's see if Wilson wants to come in with us."

"Wilson probably gets seasick."

"Fiona won't. She probably knows all about boats."

House barked a laugh. "You're right. She grew up fishing for cod with her family off the coast of Greenland. A motorboat on the river will seem pretty tame."

House fished his phone out of his pocket.

"Who are you calling?" Cuddy asked.

"Wilson. He should know that he's about to be part owner of a boat. Stand back. I think you'll be able to hear the squawking."

"You could ask him, not tell him," Cuddy observed.

"Why start now?" House said, as he selected Wilson's entry in his address book.

"Indeed," Cuddy said, as she sat back on the sofa. "Why start now?"


End file.
